


Bob and Weave

by prouvairablehulk



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Cisco Ramon is a Gift, Doesn't Stop Us Stealing Things Too, F/F, F/M, Found Family, Lisa Snart is a ColdWave Shipper, M/M, Organized Crime, Polyamory Negotiations, References to Past Child Abuse, Surprise We're All Vigilantes, Team as Family, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-31 22:56:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6490675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prouvairablehulk/pseuds/prouvairablehulk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Leonard Snart tries and fails to pretend there’s no good in him, gets married twice and divorced precisely never, adopts half the metahuman population of Central City, becomes the most feared Mob Boss in the Midwest, makes more cold puns than anyone can really stand, stops an interdimensional murderer, and finally learns to make pancakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Never Liked That Ending Either

**Author's Note:**

> In which everyone Len loves dies, and impossible things occur (as they tend to do around Bartholomew fucking Allen)
> 
> [EDIT (or things I forgot to mention earlier): All of these chapter titles are from the Richard Siken Poem Litany In Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out. Also, I'm prouvairablehulk on tumblr, so feel free to swing by]

“MOVE IT, MOVE IT, LET’S GO!” 

Even as little as a week ago, Leonard Snart would have laughed in your face if you’d told him he’d be taking orders from Joe West. 

A lot can happen in a week.

The little regiment he’s become a part of is moving quickly through the wreckage of what had once been downtown Central. At its head is Barry Allen, in all his scarlet-tripolymer glory, followed by West, gun drawn, and one of the metahuman kids who had come forward when everything went to hell, a tiny slip of a street girl named Resa, who could light her fists on fire with a thought. Len and Mick are bringing up the rear, with Hartley Rathaway twitching in between them and the rest of the group. Rathaway was being particularly paranoid – not that such an action was out of place in the hellscape that they were living in now. 

“We don’t have much time, so we need to make sure we’re in place before –“ Allen’s speech is interrupted by a blur of blue across the square ahead of them.

“Fuck me.” growls West. “Cisco?”

“Working on it. I don’t know how he’s tracking you. He shouldn’t be able to, with the field working to cancel out Barry’s electrical energy.”

It took precisely three days for Zoom to destroy Central’s CBD looking for the Flash, three days that had torn the world Len knew completely apart – he can still see the look on Lisa’s face when the black-masked speedster had shoved his hand through her chest, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to erase it from the black behind his eyelids. It was that moment that had convinced him to through in his lot with the crew at STAR Labs, when a heist at a museum went sideways, when the familiar rhythm of quips and low-level flirting with the Flash had been interrupted by a trail of blue and a man in black. From there, it had been someone yelling, and a demand for the Flash to give in, and then Lisa had leveled the gold gun at the newcomer’s back and pulled the trigger. Before Len could make it to the vowel sound of ‘no’, or the stream of gold could make it to the spot where he had once been standing, the new speedster is in front of Lisa, arm half-raised. 

“Brave,” he’d said, in the same odd, vibrating tones that Barry used when he was trying to conceal his identity, “but stupid.”

Len barely remembers the rest of that day, doesn’t remember Barry speeding him and Mick out of there, doesn’t remember the breakdown that he rewatches on the STAR Labs CCTV later, doesn’t remember punching the alley wall outside Saints and Sinners until his knuckles bled, remembers nothing until Mick was dragging him away with an arm around his waist and more soft words than Len could ever recall him having spoken in one go. All this is blanketed by the emptiness that had filled him in that moment, like Zoom had pulled out his heart alongside the light in Lisa’s eyes. 

“Let us have a go at that fuck.” growls Mick, voice like gravel and rust, a look of fury on his face. “Let us slow him down until you have time to make a move.”

To say that he and Mick had not taken Lisa’s death well would be an understatement of truly epic proportions. 

“Historically, having the Rogues be distractions has not gone well for us.” says Cisco, through their earpieces. 

“Historically, fuck you.” Mick snaps back. “He killed Lisa.”

“Because she did what you’re offering to do!”

“When did you start caring, Ramon?”

“When you got a comm, that’s when. Don’t even think about it.”

It’s easy to imagine the scene in STAR Labs, Cisco standing, bent down over Snow’s shoulder in order to reach the microphone, Snow looking up at him in surprise. Len starts shaking his head, even as he’s aware that Cisco can’t see him.

“You need us to, Ramon.” he says, voice low.

“What? Why?” hisses Allen, from the front of the line. They’ve paused in their advance, crouched behind the wall of a fallen parking garage. 

“Because without us to distract him you will never even get close, Scarlet. We have to try.”

The phrasing is deliberate. Len knows Barry’s used it before, always ahead of charging headfirst into another potentially debilitating and verging on suicidal heroic activity. It’s the easiest way to convince Barry to let him do this.

“Unlike you to be so selfless.” West says, but his tone makes what might have been a compliment an accusation instead. “This might kill you.”

Len’s treacherous brain replays the way Lisa’s back had arched impossibly further when Zoom closed his fist.

“I died three days ago.” says Len, and he means it. Impossibly, Barry’s face softens, like he understands, and he asks where they think the best place for this showdown is going to be. 

***

Perhaps they didn’t think this through completely. 

Len’s ice is barely slowing Zoom down, even on the rare occasions he lands a direct hit. Barry is desperately trying to stay out of the other speedster’s reach, and each dodge is a hair’s breath closer to too little too late. Mick is mostly out of the game himself, unable to fire for fear of burning Barry. Resa is battling it out with a fucking talking Shark, managing to drive him off slowly by drying him out. Hartley hadn’t come back from a mad dash into a collapsing orphanage – meaning he was either unconscious or dead, and either way Len couldn’t afford to think about him right now. West is to his left, squinting at the blur that is Barry and Zoom, looking for any kind of opportunity to fire. Mick finally has an opportunity to pull his trigger, and a long tongue of flame curls around the legs of the black suit. That’s all it takes, apparently, because Len’s feeling this peculiar sense of grief-overlaid deja-vu, and Mick is staring in shock at the arm that has vibrated its way into his chest cavity. 

“No –“ says Len, because what else do you say?

“Lenny –“ gasps Mick, and then the arm is gone again.

Len must have blacked out, because the next thing he knows the cold gun is on the pavement and he’s got Mick’s head in his lap, Len’s fingers dancing over the blood on his lips without ever touching his face. Mick has been the constant in his life for so long, his one protector in the face of everything that challenged them, everything that came after Len. He tries to drag in a breath, to see a world without the voice in his ear, without - 

MickMickMickMick

“Cold!”

Mick’s gone, Lisa’s gone gonegonegone he has failed them, he has failed at protecting them.

“Cold!” 

Oh, oh God that feeling in his chest, the low-humming warmth when Mick was there, that was love, that was what love felt like.

“Snart!”

MickMickMickI’msorryI’msofuckingsorry

“Len!”

And he’s moving. Barry Allen has his arms around his waist, and they’re running at top speed.

“I’ve got one shot at this, so I need you to trust me.” says Barry, voice low-hot in Len’s ear.

“I failed them –“ gasps Len because LisaLisaLisaMickMick they’re gone he let them die he broke his word.

“There’s a way you can save them.” says Barry, breathing hard between words as they run.

“Unless you can travel through time.” snaps Len. 

Barry is tellingly silent.

“You can travel through time.” Len’s voice is deadly monotone.

“It results in something terrible happening every time, so I don’t if I can avoid it.”

“And now you’re willing to risk it?”

“I’ll never make it – Zoom would follow me. You, on the other hand –“ Barry’s face is halfway between fear and apology.

“You want to send me back in time?”

“Save Lisa and Mick. Save us.”

“Past you would never trust me, Scarlet.” Len scoffs, because it’s the truth.

“Tell him – tell him that the man in the yellow lightning is real.” says Barry, something soft in his voice.

“Will that be enough?”

“You should be sent back far enough that it is. It’s an inexact science.”

“Oh, joy.” Len deadpans.

“Don’t fight me, just go.”

Len can hear Zoom catching up behind them, the calls reminding them of how little time the two of them have. They’re running in circles, Len knows, unpredictable but undeniably concentric loops, because they keep passing Mick – or rather, Mick’s body, where is lies on the concrete. 

Len rather wants to be sick. Mick and Lisa are dead, and it’s his fault, and here’s Bartholomew fucking Allen offering him a chance to fix it, even if it could go dramatically wrong. He tries to imagine living without Lisa, without Mick, if he survives Zoom, but all he can see is the unending emptiness, the constant press of failure in protecting those he loved. It’s not a hard decision to make.

“Promise me you’ll find me.” says Barry, eyes serious behind the cowl.

“You have my word, Scarlet.” affirms Len, and then there’s a tug behind his gut and he’s moving. Barry’s scream as Zoom catches him fades into the background of the swirling images currently forming a tunnel around him, fragmented swirls of memories playing out like an immersive home movie for a fleeting second and then - gone.

Mick, bubbles of blood forming on his lips, trying and failing to say something else after his desperate “Lenny”.

His past self, marching into STAR Labs, offering assistance in stopping Zoom to the stunned expressions of Cisco and Caitlin.

Lisa, silent and beautiful in death, not a mark on her to show where Zoom had ripped the life from her.

Mick, giving Len what passes, for him, as a smile over a beer in Saints and Sinners as the Flash defeats Mardon and the Trickster on the news.

Barry slamming him against the wall of the West house, torn between anger and confusion as to why Len would be willing to give him a warning.

Lisa, wrapping her arms tight around his waist, after Mardon broke him out of prison.

His father, gasping out a final breath on the floor, ice driven through his ice-cold heart.

Barry, lying on the floor, apparently dead, pulling an emotion out of Len he thought only Lisa was capable of inducing.

Mick, mocking his Netflix choices as the two of them lay low after Len double-crossed the Flash.

Lisa, face buried in his parka as they drive away.

Barry, face contorted with pain and disappointment as Len reminds him that he made a deal with a thief, and a criminal, and a liar.

Mick, cautioning Len that double-crossing the Flash will have repercussions, and shouldn’t he have a more detailed plan?

Barry, practically begging for help, lean lines of his body propped against a pool table in a fashion that is pure sin.

Lisa, eyes bright, ducking behind an overturned table with the Gold Gun in hand.

Cisco Ramon’s terrified eyes when Len steps down from behind the banister and demands technologically advanced weaponry.

Mick in the kitchen of Len’s favorite safehouse, head buried in the fridge as he bitches Len out for the lack of anything with a nutritional value, the bitchface turned on Len when he attempts to point out that an alcohol content counts as nutrients.

Lisa, framed like an archangel in the door of the prisoner transport van, rolling her eyes.

Mick in the holding cell at the precinct, scowling from under heavy brows.

Mick, fire leaping from the gun Len had entrusted him with, delighted and laughing.

Mick, drinking black coffee while leaning against the kitchen table, watching Len plan their next heist.

Lisa, laughing at something Len’s said, pixelating slightly due to a poor wifi connection. 

The slow, greedy smile that crawled across Mick’s face as he beheld the heat gun for the first time.

Cisco’s hands shaking on a clearly fake “prototype cold gun” as Len walks away.

The first time he really saw Barry, standing opposite him on a train car, a grin derived from the thrill of the chase painted across features that were so young, and would so quickly seem so care-worn.

The perfect, comfortable feel of the cold gun in his hands for the first time, the heat gun that wouldn’t help him but Mick would love, knowing it’s the perfect apology present, knowing he’s going to have to take both.

“Well, if you’re out, you’re out.”

Something moving too fast for Len to register, throwing him from the back of a truck.

Feeling oddly empty as he plans the heist that should net him the Khandaq Dynasty Diamond, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that sounds like Mick.

Len stumbles, feet on solid ground, and grasps at the wall of the back alley he’s standing in. Everything is spinning, like he’s stepped off a manic teacup ride, or fallen thirty stories only to be caught safely at the bottom. Once his head begins to clear, and his internal clock starts ticking, measured and even count of seconds unflinching and automatic, he bends to pick up a wind-blown newspaper. 

January 7, 2012.

Two years. He has two years before the accelerator explodes, two years to find Barry, earn his trust, two years to put himself in a position to rewrite history and save the only people he has ever loved. 

He has so much to do.


	2. Do It Over (Give Me Another Version)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Len gets an inadvisable number of tattoos and makes some even more inadvisable decisions (like calling the partner he dumped under dubious circumstances)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up - Len has a panic attack in this chapter. It's based off my own experience of my panic attacks, and its described in some reasonably flowery language, but it's still a panic attack.

The wonderful thing about being a career criminal is that there will always be a safehouse for you to go to, one where you can guarantee you’ll be alone. Number Five, as of the beginning of 2012, was a walk-up apartment about three blocks from the alley Len had arrived in. He doesn’t bother checking the mail, just climbs the stairs, giving a courteous nod to the few neighbors he passes, and uses his body to shield his actions as he picks the lock. The apartment is sparsely decorated, with only a fifth-hand three-seater couch, a table, and three fold-down lawn chairs, although the kitchen is stocked with a coffee maker, a couple of pots, and as much soup and canned fruit as anyone could need. There are mugs and bowls in the cupboard, mostly mismatched and with logos for tourist destinations Len has never seen. Len pulls out one of the chairs and sinks into it, finally giving in to the shakes that had been threatening to overwhelm him since the reality sank in. Here he was, in his own past, with a mission to fix something he didn’t even screw up and memories of those he loved dying that no one else shared. Part of him knew he was the only survivor, but most of him refused to admit it. 

He scrutinizes the apartment in an attempt to keep his heart from pounding out of his chest, and froze when his eyes met the walls. There are tiny, pinprick holes scattered across them, phantoms of plans and blueprints for a heist. Some of them are long gouges, starting deep and becoming shallower as they drag across the wall. Len recalls what made those all too well – the night of the heist that would give Mick his scars, the one where Len had been forced to leave him rather than have them both die, Len had come back here, to the apartment where he planned the job, and ripped it all down in a fit of rage. It wasn’t, as he’d later claimed, because Mick had screwed up the job. No, it was because he’d been forced to leave him, to hang on the knife edge of knowing he was alive or he was dead, waiting for a news report, for a mention on a police scanner. Schrodinger’s Pyromaniac. 

There’s a laugh, high and almost hysterical, and it takes Len a moment to realize it’s coming from him. It peters out into silence almost as soon as he acknowledges it was coming from his mouth, replaced by deep, heaving breaths and the sense that the world was pressing in on him, becoming to small to encapsulate his being. Without thinking, he fumbles his phone from his pocket and hits the speed dial, thanking his lucky stars that Lisa never changed her number. Her voice comes down the line like water to a dying man.

“Hey there Lenny!” she sing-songs, clearly happy to hear from him.

“I let you die, Lisa.” says Len, because when he’s too big for the room like this, with the world too tight around him like this, with his breath heaving like this, he’s never been able to keep himself level. 

“No you didn’t, big brother. You kept me safe, and I’m alive because you helped me.” Lisa replies, her voice even. She’s talked him down from this feeling before, she’s been doing it since he turned 20. The difference is, until now the dreams had never been truths, had never been memories. 

“No, Lisa, you don’t understand! It’s in the future. In the future there’s a speedster –someone who can run so fast they break Mach-4 on foot - from another Earth and he comes after the one we have here, and the one we have here, we like him despite him being a goody two shoes, because he’s our good guy and he makes puns back and he banters and he makes me better, so we try to protect him, and you – you fire on him with your gun-“ he gasps in breath, “oh, Lisa, you’re going to love that gun, it shoots gold! You fire your gun and he vibrates his arm through your chest before we can blink, and then you’re dead and I couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t protect you. And then it happens again, Lisey, he does the same thing to Mick. I promised I’d protect you Lisa, and I didn’t.”

There’s silence, and then Lisa’s voice.

“You’re telling me a superhuman from another Earth killed me in the future? And you came back? How?”

“Our speedster sent me, told me to change it. How can I save the world Lisa? I’m a petty thief who couldn’t save his sister or his partner.”

“You’re anything but petty, Lenny. And are you really blaming yourself for not being faster that someone who can break Mach-4?”

The room seems to recede from his skin. He feels like he can breathe a little better. 

“I’m going to come to you. Where are you?” she asks. 

“Safehouse Five.”

“Alright. I’ll bring you a pack, but I need to stop for alcohol. Do you want me to stay on the line? Or are you okay for now?”

Len takes a breath, moves so he can sit on the cool tile of the kitchen and press his back against the cold glass panel of the unused oven.

“I’ll be okay for now.”

“Alright, bro, I’ll be there soon.”

***

Lisa arrives with three bottles of red wine under one arm, and one of his emergency packs under the other. The packs are full of things that help Len make the world back off – sharpies and post-it notes, big sketchbooks of watercolor paper, crosswords, rubix cubes. Lisa’s already removed the portable speakers, and is plugging them into the wall, turning on the lazy jazz that always helps, letting the cool piano of Thelonius Monk fill the empty spaces between them. Len pushes himself up from the tiles and lurches into Lisa’s now-free arms, pulling her close to him. She smells like her favorite coconut shampoo, and the woodsy-floral perfume she always favored, with an undertone of sharp-sweet juice, like a mixed drink, and the tang of burnt rubber and leather from her bike. She smelt like Lisa, alive and real, heartbeat strong, and in his arms. 

“Was it a dream, big brother?” she asks, her face half-smooshed against his chest.

“Unfortunately not.” says Len. Lisa nods as best she can, given her position. There is no need for convincing with Lisa. She just accepts it.

“What are you gonna do about it?” 

Len pauses to think, but doesn’t let go of Lisa. He’s not sure he can. There’s the possibility that he might forget details the longer he’s in the past, and that’s something he can’t afford if he wants to keep Mick and Lisa and Barry alive. 

“I’m going to need to remember some things first.” he says, eyes drifting to the emergency pack.

The first post-it that goes up on the wall is Mick’s now-current phone number, because Len knows he’s going to need Mick on-side if this is ever going to work. The second is the street address for the West house, where Len knows he’ll be able to find Barry. Then comes two case file numbers Lisa managed to hack in to find, one belonging to Theresa Cavanagh, who Len had met as Resa, and one to Raphael Beauchamps, her best friend. The two had been living on the street when they were affected by the accelerator, both thrown out by parents unable to accept children who were queer. 

Barry may have sent Len back to stop Zoom, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t save others in the process.

Next comes the date of the particle accelerator explosion, the date his father was released from prison, the combination to the safe in his fifth safe house. The date Hartley attacked Rathaway Industries, the date Mardon broke Len out, the date Shawna Baez appeared in Saints and Sinners in a burst of smoke, ordered a vodka tonic and never left, the date he and Mick destroyed Santini’s hold on the city. The dates are soon intermingled with other things – a way to break out of the pipeline cells set up by team flash, three account numbers for Len’s stashes, passcodes and passwords, the security code for the lockup in the CCPD precinct. 

When it’s all up, he and Lisa sit on the floor with their backs against the opposite wall of the tiny square room and drink red wine from coffee mugs while they talk about places they can stash the information. They debate the merits of safes and lockboxes, of digital repositories and old-style black books, tossing ideas like children with a Frisbee, before Lisa suggests that the one place no one could steal it from is skin. Len loves this plan, and fumbles a sketchbook open with one hand as he locates a pencil with the other, sketching out an approximation of a frost fractal across the page. Lisa is beaming as she plucks the pencil from his fingers, hiding the numbers that made up Mick’s cell in one crease, the run of Theresa’s case file in another. They pass it back and forth, alternating it with the wine bottle – they’re on to their second – with Len drawing the fractal and Lisa hiding the information.

“Sleeves, I think.” says Len, as Lisa hides the last account number. “Sleeves will work.”

“These will take 12 hours apiece if you’re lucky.” says Lisa. “But yes, definitely sleeves.”

There’s a pause, during which Lisa pours herself another mug of wine, shaking the last few drops out. Len makes a noise of disappointment and Lisa magically reveals another bottle from nowhere, putting in on the floor next to her brother, despite the fact his mug is still half-full. They both take a contemplative sip. 

“Why was Mick’s number the first post-it?” asks Lisa, finally. Silence hangs heavy over the room for a moment, and then Len starts to talk. 

“He died too, Lisey, and he died calling me Lenny. He died with blood on his lips that I could have prevented and with lungs that didn’t work and his head in my lap and it took me that long. It took me that long to know –“ Len cuts himself off, stares into the dark blood-red of the wine. He drains it down in one go, and slams the mug on to the floorboard with a sharp finality. 

“I love him, Lisa.” 

The moment is so hauntingly dramatic Lisa rather wants to slam her head into a wall.

“It took you three more years and him dying to get you to admit that?” she demands. The additional belligerence in her tone derives from the alcohol. The baffled look Len gives her would be charming had she not spent the last ten years listening to a drunk Mick Rory wax rhapsodic about how much he loved her brother.

“For fuck’s sake, Lenny, he’s been in love with you since you were fifteen.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why on earth would I be lying? Look, tomorrow morning, you call him, set up a meeting.”

“That’s a terrible idea.” says Len, with finality. 

“And yet you want to tattoo his cell number on your arm.” says Lisa, because honestly, what was she going to have to do, slam their foreheads together repeatedly?

“He hates me.”

“You’ve said that before, and the two of you have always sorted it out. Call him tomorrow, Lenny. You love him, you tell him about it, alright? No sense in both of you pining.” She lets her body slump sideways into her brother’s shoulder, propping her head in the place where it met his neck, just like she used to when they were kids watching cartoons on Saturday mornings. 

Len revels in the feel of his sister warmth against his neck and his side. He thinks about Mick, about the warmth of him, about the teasing banter, the fights that were never really serious. He thinks about quietly shared drinks post-heists, about watching Mick stretch out old scars, about the joy of knowing that there was always someone at his back to watch him. He thinks of Mick, trying so hard to say something after his name, lets himself hope that those missing words could have been the return of his feelings, lets himself hope those words were ‘I love you’.

“I guess that’s the truth.” says Len, voice tired. “I’ll call him tomorrow.” 

Lisa smiles wide, full of hope, of joy, and Len levers her off the floor and pulls her down on himself, onto the beaten up three-seater couch. It doesn’t take long for them to fall asleep. It never has, when they’re together like this, with a lock on the door keeping them safe, and the thrum of the city outside as a lullaby. Len holds his baby sister tight and dares to hope that this time will be better. 

***

Lisa wakes alone on the couch to the smell of coffee. She can hear Len moving around in the kitchen, idly pacing while he waits for the drip to finish. She lets herself luxuriate in the feeling – the sunshine crawling across the hardwood floor, the warmth of her brother’s jacket over her body, the knowledge that she’s safe, that in this moment, no one can hurt her. Her brother has put a new album on, volume low enough she wouldn’t wake were she still asleep. It’s The Smiths, which makes her smile. Len hates to admit he likes The Smiths. There’s a sound like something heavy settling into something solid, and she knows her brother is sitting on the counter, and she waits for the telltale rhythmic thump of his heels against the cupboard door. It comes at the same time as Len starts a conversation with – ah, the tattoo parlor, for his sleeves. The appointment is for later that day, but Lisa doesn’t stir even after her brother hangs up. He turns up Morrissey’s vocals a little more, as though hoping it will wake her up and give him an excuse. When she doesn’t react, he sighs, and she hears the sound of him dialing a number. 

“It’s me, Mick.” says Len, when he picks up. 

The shouting may be incomprehensible, but the volume and the vehemence are clear even from Lisa’s position. Len says nothing, just lets Mick yell, and yell, and yell.

“I know, and I deserved that, and I’m sorry.” says Len, when Mick’s done. Lisa can hear the doubled echo – I’m sorry I let you die, I’m sorry I never told you, I’m sorry I left. Mick is silent. 

“It’s too close to home, and it’s too near the bone.” sings Morrissey. 

“I won’t ask you to forgive me, but will you meet me?” Len asks. Mick is silent for a worrying length of time, but eventually he replies. 

“Yes, that will suit perfectly. Saints and Sinners, in three days, at 7.” says Len. Mick growls something in response, and Len tosses back a reply Lisa’s not listening to. She’s too busy punching the air victoriously. Len’s balled-up sweater lands on her face a moment later.

“It’s not polite to eavesdrop.” he scolds, but soon he’s laughing, and she is too. For a minute, in a sun-stained apartment on the wrong block on the wrong street of the wrong part of town, it looked like things might be changing for the better.


	3. Love Always Wakes the Dragon And Suddenly – Flames Everywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Len comes to a rather alarming conclusion, Lisa holds a Courthouse at gunpoint for precisely the opposite of the reason you’d expect, and kidnapping becomes a viable means of adoption.

Saints and Sinners is exactly as Len remembers it – dark and quiet, with red leather booths and pool tables lining the space. He takes his drink from the counter (he orders it ice cold without thinking, and Lisa raises an eyebrow at him) and heads back towards the jukebox. There’s a ghost of a memory in his head, another day and another ice cold drink, another man he’d wronged arriving in the quiet. Cold As Ice is still in the song selection, and it feels right to play it, the button just as cool and smooth under his fingers as it had been when he had Barry at his back, asking him for help that Len had been all too willing to give for the right price. When he turns, Lisa has perched herself on the nearest pool table with a raised eyebrow. 

“There’s a backstory here I’m missing, isn’t there.” she says.

“Barry came here to ask me for help, once. In the future.”

“Is Barry your Speedster?”

“Yes. He called himself the Flash – had this skin-tight red suit. He wanted us to help him transport some metahumans out of the city. We did, in exchange for him destroying all my criminal records – but we’d sabotaged the truck so they could escape. It wasn’t even the first time I’d betrayed him. And despite all of all that, he still thought there was enough good in me to entrust me with the fate of the world.”

Lisa is looking at him with an oddly contemplative gaze. 

“Are we going to fix it?” she asks, finally. 

“If I don’t, you die.” says Len. “You and Mick both. And I can’t go through that again.”

“What happened to Barry, in the future?” 

“I don’t know. I think Zoom caught up to him, but I ever saw.”

“And you care about him, too.”

Len studies the melting ice in the glass he’s holding. 

“Oh my god you’re a little in love with the speedy one too. This is too good.” Lisa is beaming, eyes bright. “I am holding this over you forever. Do you know where he is? Have you looked for him?” 

Len does indeed know where Barry is, literally at this moment. He’s seen the lab at the Precinct that Barry uses, has spotted him having coffee with Iris at Jitters. He looks so young, so carefree, and Len is having trouble even thinking of destroying that innocence by telling him what lies in store. It would be so easy, to bump into him on the street, to say the phrase Barry had passed on in the future Len is working to avert, and yet it would crack something so beautiful. 

“Let’s deal with Mick first, and then we’ll worry about Barry.” says Len, and then downs the rest of his drink in one go. 

“You know, that’s the first time you’ve said ‘we’, rather than ‘I’.” observes Lisa. 

“It will be ‘we’. You, me, hopefully Mick, Barry, his team - all of us together. The future I lived was a consequence of us not supporting each other, or giving each other all the information, and I refuse to let that happen again.” Len pushes away from the pool table and crosses towards one of the booths. “Now, let me talk to Mick. If you want to eavesdrop, do it subtly.”

As he sits, the door swings open and Mick stalks across the mostly-empty bar to take the empty seat opposite him. 

“Mick.” says Len, spotting Lisa sliding into the booth on the other side of the median. 

“Snart.” says Mick. He doesn’t seem overtly angry, just confused. It’s like all the anger in him is residual, dying embers. They just stare at each other for a while, cataloguing differences. Mick’s scars are angry and fresh, and he’s still sitting gingerly to protect them. 

“You never say you’re sorry.” is Mick’s opening gambit.

“I needed to.” Len replies. He traces his finger through the condensation rings on the table. “I fucked up.”

“I thought I fucked up.” says Mick. There’s a heavy crease in his brows. 

“We both fucked up.” It’s a lazy compromise, but it forces a huffing laugh out of Mick.

“You wanted to talk to me?” 

“There’s something I need help with. And you’re the only person I trust to do it.”

“Even after that last job?”

“Especially after that last job. It’s going to sound a little unbelievable.”

“There are a lot of things about you that are unbelievable, buddy.”

Len never thought he’d be relieved to hear the word buddy. 

(Behind the median, Lisa Snart has both hands pressed over the mouth to stifle her excitement)

“This one’s more sci-fi than normal. I’m from the future, Mick.”

“Our future, or another timeline’s future?”

This is the thing about Mick Rory – he’s smarter than a lot of people would expect, and he understands things others do not. And even without that, there’s something between the two of them, something that has always been there, ever since Mick stepped in front of him and broke a boy’s arm to stop the shiv that had been inches from Len’s ribs. 

“Never mind,” says Mick, in the silence that follows that question. “It doesn’t matter. If you’re here, something went wrong. What do we need to change?”

“The particle accelerator they are building at STAR Labs is going to explode, and it’s going to result in the creation of people with superpowers. One of them – he gets fast. Very fast. And a being with the same powers will travel through dimensional barriers in order to fight him, and in the process that being is going to kill you and Lisa. So I need to help Barry – our speedster, the Flash – makes sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Was it him who sent you back?” asks Mick, although its clear there’s another question he wants to ask.

“Yes, Barry sent me.” says Len, but he’s waiting for the other question.

“How did I die?” 

“You were fighting the other speedster – you and I together, we were slowing him down for Barry. You landed a hit on him, and he –“ Len’s voice catches in his throat. Mick’s gaze is focused on him, something intense and untranslatable in his eyes. “He vibrated his arm so it would go through your chest, and he collapsed your lungs. Right in front of me.” 

Mick swallows. 

“How long do we have?”

“Four and a half years. Five, at the outside.”

(On the other side of the median, Lisa mouths ‘five?’ to herself and shakes her head. Honestly, her brother is useless)

“And I presume you have a plan?” 

“We find Barry before the accelerator, tell him what I know, make sure he has support and information and back up.”  
Mick nods, agreeing easily. “Alright. I presume you know where the kid is, so what kind of support does he need?”

“It would help if we could keep some of the underworld out of his way. So I want to roll the Darbinyans, make this ours.” 

“Our city. That sounds nice.” 

(Lisa Googles what time the town hall closes. She won’t force anything, but it seems like useful information to have)

“And there’s two kids. We found then later, after they’d been living on the street and trying to learn to control powers. The only reason they were out there was because they were queer, and I want to help them. They deserve a better life”

Mick looks angry, suddenly. 

“They do. What are their names?” 

“Theresa and Raphael. I thought perhaps you can give them your name, because there’s less stigma than mine. As long as you’re willing, of course.”

“Theresa Rory. Raphael Rory. I think that sounds good. You know where they are too?” 

Len rolls up his sleeve, shows the place in the crease of one elbow where their case file numbers are inked (the other elbow crease bears the date of the particle accelerator explosion, in red, just like Barry). 

“We get a house, find them a good school. There’s a bar that would provide a good front for us, we can nominally work there.” 

“That works. We’ll need to bankroll all of that somehow.”

“Central City National.” says Len.

“We’re robbing it?” clarifies Mick.

“We are.”

There’s a beat of comfortable silence between the two of them, but there’s something else beating at the back corners of Len’s mind. He’s got Mick in front of him, a Mick who’s forgiven him, who’s agreed to raise two children with him, who’s signed on to run a business with him, who’s going to take over the city with him, who’s just signed on to help someone he’s never met on the word of a man who’s abandoned him. 

“There’s something else you should know.” he says, before he can stop himself. 

(Lisa’s got her fist stuffed in her mouth to avoid making a noise. The fact she may not have to put up with another five years of awkward pining totally makes up for the weird look the bartender is shooting her.)

Mick quirks an eyebrow. 

“When you died – I –“ Len runs a hand over his face, stares down at the scarred tabletop. “I realized something. And if we’re going to do this, you need to know all the facts I can give you.”

Mick’s other eyebrow rises to join the first.

“And if I don’t say anything, I won’t only be lying to you. I’ll be lying to myself as well.”

Both of Mick’s hands are on the table now, and he’s started leaning forward. 

“Snart –“ he says, voice low. “Lenny –“

“I love you.” Len blurts, all his characteristic chill blown away in the face of such intense emotion. He didn’t realize it, but Len had started leaning forward too, until he could count the flecks of brown in Mick’s eyes. 

There’s a pause, during which they do nothing but breath each other’s air. Len’s heartbeat is loud in his ears.

“Lenny,” says Mick, an almost dopey smile breaking out across his face, “Is that it? You idiot, I’ve been in love with you since you since the first time you planned a heist for me. I thought -”

Something pulls loose in Len’s chest, like a knot untying. He shoves himself up with one hand on the table, using the other to frame Mick’s face and haul him in. They only break apart when Lisa hurls herself onto the table in order to attempt to hug them both at once.

“Praise be!” she gasps, and then takes off to be some beers off the bartender for a celebration.

“You said you wanted to give Theresa and Raphael a better life, and my name.” Mick is tracing his thumb across the back of Len’s hand – Len’s not even sure when they started holding hands over the table like teenagers on a first date. He’s going to have to be careful – they are going to have to be careful to ensure they don’t give their relationship away in a place where it might hurt them.

“There’s less baggage to go with Rory than with Snart.” says Len, and he doesn’t take his hand back, instead watching mesmerized as Mick lets his thumb drag. 

“Do you want it too, then?”

Len’s eyes snap up to Mick’s face. 

“Are you sure?”

“You tried it without me. Without us. Look where that got you.”

Len huffs out a laugh at that, and Lisa returns with three beers. 

“What do you say, partner?” asks Mick, a hopeful tinge to his voice. The look on his face suggests that every far-off impossible wish he’d try to stop himself wanting was on the verge of coming true. 

Len thinks about everything that could go wrong – the people who could find out, his father finding out, one of them used as leverage against the other, pain and death and anger. He thinks of the future he’d lived, the one where he’d said nothing, never had the chance to even attempt something like this. There are dreams he’s been locking away spilling into the forefront of his mind, dreams thieves and liars shouldn’t be having. Dreams of Saturday mornings in bed as the sun spills across sheets, hot cocoa on couches while the snow falls outside, feeling the rise and fall of someone’s chest and hearing their heart beat under your ear, warm arms around your chest holding you close while they tuck their head into your shoulder, dreams of dancing in the kitchen to the radio turned down low. These are things he couldn’t have, things he could never have.

His sole purpose here is changing things. Who’s to say he can’t have this too? What is stopping him from taking this, from leaving his father’s name behind and making sure no one hurt those kids like he had been hurt, making sure Barry made it out of this alive and well? The only thing in his way was this idea that such things were impossible – that he didn’t deserve it. Well, he’s watched the two people who matter most die in front of him. If there is anything in the world he deserves, it’s happiness. 

“Why not?” he says, and Mick makes a noise like he’s dying and lunges across the table to kiss him again, hard and passionate and loving in a way kisses had never been before this moment. 

“What did I miss?” asks Lisa, only to be met with another, longer kiss, as neither man could bring themselves to pull away. She has to clear her throat before she gets an answer.

“Your brother’s gonna take my name.” says Mick, the same glowing grin as earlier plastered across his broad face.

“Holy shit, you’re going to get married?” Lisa gasps.

“Give the kids two parents, and all that nuclear family nonsense.” drawls Len, some of his old snark creeping back into his voice. 

“City Hall closes in 35 minutes.” says Lisa, gesturing with the open webpage on her phone. “If we leave now we’ll catch the last clerk.”

***  
There is a gun leveled across the desk. The woman on the other end of the weapon looks remarkably at ease for someone threatening a government official, and given that James is the last person in the building, there’s really nothing to do but find out what she wants, and give it to her. 

That’s the point when the two men stumble in. Judging by the rumpled state of their clothing, they’ve either been fighting or – wait, no, the larger man has a, well, frankly massive hickey at the base of his neck, and the shorter man’s lips become more clearly bite-bruised this closer they get to the counter, they’ve been making out in the hallway. They’re both grinning, and they can barely keep their hands off each other. If James wasn’t terrified of the gun in his face, he might call them cute. 

“Lisey –“ says the shorter man, “there’s no need for that. Just ask the man for what we want, and we’ll be on our way.” 

The woman lowers her gun, slowly. 

“Call the police and it comes out again.” she purrs. James nods furiously. “Then we’ll be needing a marriage license and whatever forms you get for a name change.”

“If you don’t mind me asking –“ James asks (he doesn’t squeak, he promises), “why not come in during business hours?” He slips the forms onto the counter and backs up quickly. 

“Not an option for us.” says the tall man, signing the license with a flourish. When he turns it back to James, the names on the lines read ‘Leonard Snart’ and ‘Michael Rory’. Oh. That’s why. They both have outstanding warrants to their names, and the woman must therefore be Lisa Snart. It’s nice that she’s their witness. And she certainly looks happy for them. Leonard slides the name change form back to James with a tiny smile and slips his hand into his new husband’s while James finishes copying the forms for them. 

“Give us ten minutes as a headstart, and then feel free to call the police. They’ll need to update their records after all.” says Leonard. Mick gives a sharp head tilt as a farewell, pulling Leonard into his side, and Lisa winks wickedly. James stares at the official copies of the forms, and then looks up at their retreating backs. 

“Mister Rory! Mister Rory!” he calls. Both men turn to look back at him. 

“Congratulations.” he says, a little sheepishly. Mick gives him the most genuine smile he’s ever received, and then they’re gone. 

He gives them 15 minutes before he calls the police, just to be safe. 

***  
Lisa drives them to the home that Theresa and Raphael are living in, and waits outside while Len sweeps in with a fake ID she’d made while Mick slides into the front seat. It takes 25 minutes for Len to sweep back out again, this time followed by a pair of young people – the girl has shoulder-length dark hair and green eyes, and her brother is taller and dark, with a buzz cut and a laptop bag slung over his shoulders that he was clutching like a lifeline. Mick helps them load their bags into the trunk, and then they pile in, Len in the back next to Raphael (Raph. Just Raph) with Theresa (oh god no not the full name please) pressed against the window. 

It takes five minutes. 

“Okay look I know you said you were transferring us to a new house, and I kept my mouth shut because we were two seconds away from getting thrown out by that one, but I’ve hacked the CCPD more than someone who’s on thin ice probably should have and I know you’re Leonard Snart.” Raph blurts, eyes fixed on the road ahead of them. 

“Leonard Rory.” corrects Mick, from the front seat. “We got married right before we came to get you.” He still sounds proud about it, and Len grins, soppy. He really needs to get that under control. 

“So why us? Why now?”

“We wanted to help. You guys need it.” offers Mick.

“No one should have to live like we did.” says Lisa.

“I’ve seen what you can become.” says Len. 

“Okay, Doc Brown.” 

“Reysey!” scolds Mick. “Tone!”

Raph and Reysey, who had beamed at the nickname, looked at each other without saying anything for a good minute. 

“Alright.” says Reysey, finally. “What do we become?”

Len grins. “Heroes.”

“How do you feel about Rory as a surname?” asks Mick. “Because we’re keeping you. Also, Len’s time traveled back from the future. Where do you want to go to dinner? This is going to be a long story.”

***  
David Singh lets himself out of the interview room and fights the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall. Leonard Snart and Mick Rory are legally married. And not in a ‘we’re not going to testify against each other and you cant make us’ way, no, in a ‘they were making out in the corridor beforehand and were super handsy and Mick had a hickey and they were sort of cute?’ way, according to the clerk Lisa Snart had held at gunpoint. ‘Sort of cute’. For fuck’s sake. 

“Sir? We’ve just had a report from a local foster home, and a man matching the description of Leonard Sna- sorry, Leonard Rory, just used falsified paperwork to kidnap two of the children living there. Well, all of it was falsified except the adoption papers.”

“Who?”

“Theresa Cavanagh and Raphael Beauchamps – Rory, now. Both thrown out by their parents for coming out.”

David was intimately familiar with Theresa and Raphael. Theresa was notorious for getting into fights at the slightest provocation. There was one instance where she’d been brought in and let off with a warming, alongside two-thirds of the second string CCU defensive line after a fight over Powerade flavors, and another where she’d given someone a concussion over Beat poetry. Raphael was a talented computer scientist with a genius level IQ and a fascination with breaking firewalls, making him two-thirds of the way to a hacker that could do some serious damage. Not to mention the fact that he was a suspect in the hacks on the CCPD mainframe itself.

Great. The Rorys wanted to play house, and they had taken the two children closest to tipping over the borderline into criminal behavior. There had to be a secondary motive.

‘Sort of cute’. 

Bullshit.


	4. All Of The Rooms In The Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Len, Mick and Lisa build a dream house and buy a headquarters (and unintentionally solve all of Hartley Rathaway’s problems just by existing).

They go to an Irish Pub.

Reysey (who has enthusiastically embraced Mick’s nickname) wanted corned beef, and she won the ten minute argument in the backseat about where they were eating (although Raph didn’t seem overly put out by losing). They’re seated in a booth, with Lisa, Raph and Reysey on one side and Mick and Len on the other. Reysey and Raph are both all-bar hugging mugs of decaf coffee, and Lisa is toying with a glass of wine. 

“So, about the time travel.” says Raph, running his fingers around the rim of his mug. 

“Did the world end?” asks Reysey, eyes bright. Lisa shakes her head, but she’s smiling.

“Sort of, yes.” says Len. “A lot of people died, and I was sent back to make sure it didn’t happen.”

“Did we die?” asks Raph.

“You were still alive when I was sent back. You had superpowers, both of you. Reysey, you could light yourself on fire. Raph, you had remote access to digital files – you could hack into systems with your mind. You’d been kicked out of all your foster homes and had been living on the street, and when they put out the call for people with powers to step forward, you came. Despite everything that had been done to you, you still came.” 

There’s a beat, during which Reysey blushes into her coffee mug and Raph looks proud.

“You deserved better. You both deserved better than that, and I want to give it to you.”

“We want to give it to you.” interjects Mick. 

“That sounds great and all, and I really don’t want to be ungrateful here, but you literally just kidnapped us and I know you all have records. So is there any way you can prove any of that?” asks Raph, voice a little concerned. Len’s eyes go distant .

“For your eighth birthday, you got a laptop computer. You told me that the first time you took a coding class, you felt like someone had given you wings. And Reysey, the only thing you’ve ever stolen was a stainless steel lighter from the pocket of your first caseworker, and you took it to get engraved three days later. You keep it in your jacket pocket, and it says ‘as above, so below’.” 

“Holy shit.” says Raph, and Reysey puts the lighter on the table, her movements somehow sheepish. 

“So what’s the plan, dad?” asks Reysey, although she immediately pulls a face. “No, not dad. Father? Is Father okay?” 

Len smirks. “Father is fine.”

***  
They move into safehouse #3, which is the biggest apartment Len currently owns, and has two bedrooms and a large study that could be temporarily converted into a third. Raph takes the study, because it gives him plenty of space to set up the complex array that he pulled out of his laptop bag, and Reysey appropriates half of Len’s library into the second bedroom. The kitchen table is unusable because it’s filling up with blueprints and plans – all for the home Len and Mick are designing. It’s styled like a Brownstone, with four floors and a basement. The entrance level floor is a huge kitchen and entertaining space, and there are bedrooms on every floor above it – one for Reysey, and for Raph, and for Lisa, and then for all those Len is expecting to meet: Mark, Shawna, Hartley, Axel. He includes one for Eddie Thawne, just in case, because who knows what will happen in this timeline, and four more for the kids Mick will inevitably adopt, and then one more just to be on the safe side. The basement has a training gym with bags and weights, and the back end of the top floor is the master bedroom. 

They leave Reysey and Raph out of the planning for the heist, but when they get back from rolling a Central City National transport truck loaded with the contents of safety deposit boxes, almost three million dollars richer and an hour later than they expected, Reysey is waiting in the biggest armchair. 

“You’re safe!” she crows, and flings herself across the floor to hug them. Len passes her off to Mick after his hug, and Mick doesn’t let go, breathing in the scent of her hair. Raph emerges from his room, beaming, and flings himself in to the chair Reysey had abandoned, demanding details. 

They buy Saints and Sinners the next morning, for more than it is probably worth, and the lot behind it, to turn into their home.

Sometimes Len wakes to an empty bed, and finds Mick wrapped around Reysey – she wakes shaking from nightmares she cannot explain and he stays at her side, whispering endearments (m’aiden, my little flame) and promises (never again) until she can fall asleep, until he falls asleep beside her like a penitent at an altar. Sometimes, Mick is woken by Len getting up to keep Raph company while the boy drinks tea and pretends its his work keeping him awake and not his memories, nothing but silence and the smell of mint or chamomile filling the space. Sometimes, Reysey and Raph drag their parents to the couch and sit on them to keep them there while they watch mindless movies in order to tear their minds away from burning and death and vibrating arms in black suits. Sometimes, when it rains, Len and Mick will dance in the kitchen with the radio on low, and Raph and Reysey will pretend that they aren’t watching so that they will keep dancing, suspended in a moment that is frail and beautiful while the water forms droplets on the windowpanes. Sometimes, Reysey and Raph will sit wrapped up in each other on the couch, reading, and Mick and Len will smile when they see it. Sometimes, Mick and Reysey will cook together, dancing in and out of their space and laughing. Sometimes, Len and Raph will plan hypothetical heists of famous museums for fun. Sometimes, they play Cards Against Humanity with Lisa at 2 am, with uproarious hilarity. Sometimes, the whole house smells like cinnamon. 

Little. Broken. Still Good. 

***

Mick makes blueberry pancakes in the Brownstone’s new kitchen on the morning of Raph and Reysey’s first day at their new high school. After the two of them have inhaled their plates and downed about three mugs of coffee each, Lisa insists on taking a photo of them on their way out the door (it immediately becomes her phone background). They get five hours reprieve, and then Len’s phone rings and he’s summoned to the Principal’s office. When he arrives, Reysey’s got ice on her bruised right knuckles where they rest on her knees, and The Picture of Dorian Gray in her other hand. Len takes a photo without her noticing, before coming to sit next to her.

“What happened?” he asks. 

She puts the book down, still open to the page she’d been reading, over her thigh. 

“Some idiot thought it would be a good idea to catcall me in the cafeteria and then grab my ass when I walked past him, so I punched him.” 

Len grins, and the principal comes out of his office flanked by Reysey’s brand-new guidance counselor, just as a young man in a varsity letter jacket enters, flanked by two textbook stock-photo suburban parents. 

“Are you Theresa’s guardian?” asks the principal, looking over his glasses at Len. 

“I am. Leonard Rory.” He extends a hand, which the principal shakes. “Reysey tells me there was an altercation?”

“She punched me!” yelps the young man. 

“And with good reason.” drawls Reysey. 

“There is no good reason to hit anyone.” says the principal. “I understand that you’ve had a hard time of it recently –“

“Okay, no, that’s not the narrative we’re building here.” snaps Len. “You are not going to lay this on my daughter, and not for that reason.”

“Father –“ Reysey starts.

“Father?” questions the guidance counselor, as though the more antiquated address proved something about Reysey’s home life.

“I have to differentiate somehow. So Len is Father and Mick is Pa. Which is irrelevant - and I had a perfectly valid reason to punch him.”

“Reysey, as loathe as I am to admit it, violence is not always the answer in these situations.” says Len, voice low. 

“Auntie Lisa says –“ 

“Never listen to your Aunt Lisa about these things. Your Aunt Lisa took a shiv to high school for these kind of occasions, she will only make you escalate things.”

“Auntie Lisa’s way worked!”

“Your Aunt Lisa was also suspended six times in her junior year alone. We’re not going that route.”

The other adults in the room are watching like it’s a tennis match.

“Then can I do it Pa’s way?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Burning down your high school is a disproportionate reaction to being catcalled and groped, Reysey.” 

There’s a pause, and then a second voice interrupts.

“We can burn it down if they don’t change their policy on situations like this, m’aiden.” promises Mick Rory. 

“No, you can not.” snaps Len. 

“Yes.” purrs Mick, lighter already in hand. “We can.”

“Are – are you threatening us?” stammers the Principal.

“Yes.” says Mick.

“NO.” says Len.

“Maybe a little?” says Reysey. 

“Theresa, did Henry do something inappropriate?”

“He grabbed my ass without my permission, if that’s what you’re asking. And he said Modern Art was worthless and nonsensical in APUSH, I’m not sure what’s worse.”

“How is that relevant?” asks the Guidance Counselor. 

“Badmouthing Francis Bacon is definitely “inappropriate”, Ma’am.” Reysey says. “Expect broad answers to broad questions.”

Len is saved from the difficult choice between telling his daughter off for being snarky at an inappropriate time and being very very proud of her for not taking any shit by the door slamming open.

“What did that little shit do, Reys? Did you hit him? No one else will touch you if you hit him, and I’m sure we can make them see sense. Shall I go hit him too? Oh, good, you got ice for your knuckles, give them here, let me see how bad it is.” Raph demands, taking three long steps to get to his sister’s side and kneeling to get a look at her hands. It’s then that he seems to realize that he has company in the hall.

“Oh, hello, sir, ma’am.” 

There’s a proud smile breaking across Len’s face, and he can’t stop it.

“Raphael –“ starts the Principal.

“Who is that?” gasps Henry’s mother. 

“This is my son, Raph.” says Len, and rests his hand on Raph’s shoulder. 

“Oh. They’re foster children.” she sniffs. Len doesn’t even need to look to extend his arm and block Mick from charging her.

“Is Pa growling?” asks Reysey in a stage whisper.

“I think he is.” replies Raph, in the same voice.

“Do you know-“ growls Mick, and it’s definitely a growl, something low and made of gravel and pain, “how many times they have been told that? How many times they will be told that? How many times they will be told that they are not enough, or that their situation is their own fault? How many times they will be sniffed at and overlooked and snubbed? Just because someone who birthed them would not or could not care for them?”

“Mick.” murmurs Len. 

“They need to hear this.” Mick snaps back, in place of a deep breath. “They need to understand how many times that phrase has let other people away with hurting my kids. Because apparently once they get past 12, foster kids don’t matter. They’re throwaways. They’re delinquents, by default. I can’t look away while an authority figure lets society do that to my kids.”

There’s a noise a little like a choked-off sob, and Raph throws himself sideways at Mick’s knees. Mick drops to the floor to wrap his arms around the young man, until they’re clinging to each other. 

“And you.” Mick snaps, focusing on Henry over Raph’s shoulder, “She had every right to punch you, what you did was out of line. And if you do it again, she’ll do it again.”

“Not going to threaten him too?” accuses Henry’s father. Mick smiles the kind of smile he usually reserves for warehouses that need burning and Santini underlings who take too much in protection rackets. 

“I don’t need to. How are your knuckles, m’aiden?” 

“They’ll be fine. How are your memories, Pa?”

“They’ve been around for too long to haunt me any more. Come on, I’m going to buy you ice cream.”

“She hit my son, and you’re going to buy her ice cream?”

“She stood up for herself, and for other girls who’ve had the same thing done to them and couldn’t do the same. I think that deserves ice cream.” 

Mick helps Raph to his feet and offers Reysey a hand. “Ms. Rory?”

“You know we have to suspend her.” says the Principal, finally shaking off his stunned silence. 

“Are you going to suspend him?” asks Len, folding his arms. 

“Yes.”

“Then when do I send her back?” asks Len. “There’s only so many days I can spend teaching her to pick locks.” 

“We’re going to do lock picking?” gasps Reysey, excitedly. 

“Four days.” says the Guidance Counselor, looking a little concerned.

“Alright, we’ll be hotwiring cars too, then. Come on, guys. Let’s go home.”

Len reaches out for Mick’s hand, pulls Raph under his arm, waiting while Mick hoists Reysey onto his back, and then takes it. They leave together, Reysey laughing and clinging to Mick like a spider monkey and Raph beaming up at them, looking like a family. 

(The photo of Reysey reading Wilde as she nurses her bruised knuckles becomes Len’s homescreen. It’s the photo from later that afternoon, of Mick sitting at an outdoor picnic table with Raph and Reysey hugging him from either side, that becomes his lock screen)

***  
Reysey helps with waitressing at Saints and Sinners when in gets busy, in exchange for her verging on extravagant book budget. Len wasn’t overly pleased about the idea when she first proposed it – he knows the kind of people who come to S&S, and he’s not entirely sure he wants his 16 year old daughter waiting tables, but between her puppy dog eyes and Mick teaching her some self defense moves that were more sophisticated than Reysey’s standard punch-them-in-the-face, he relented. She ducks between tables like its her life’s work and delivers drinks without spilling a single drop, and then reappears at the end of the bar with a perky smile. Len’s just sent her off with a new order of drinks when he notices the kid sitting in the middle of the bar. Even with a different haircut and glasses, Len will never forget Hartley Rathaway’s face.

(The last thing Len had ever seen on that face was panic and desperation, as Zoom crashed through the supporting wall of an orphanage. Hartley had been running before Len could say anything, without even a word)

Hartley looks worn down in a way Len had never seen before, tired and faded at the edges. There was a wear and an age to the slump his shoulders that made Len want to hug him. Instead, he picks his way over, and props his elbows on the bar.

“You okay, kid?”

“I’m fine.” says Hartley, a little too quickly. 

“Nah, kid, you’re not. Spill.”

Hartley looks up, and Len can see that his eyes are red-rimmed.

“My dad’s going to throw me out.” 

Len feels that like a personal affront. And even though he knows the answer, he asks the question.

“Why?”

“Because I’m gay.”

“That’s some bullshit, right there. You got somewhere to go?” 

“Somewhere to – what?” asks Hartley, plainly confused.

“Well, you’re not going to pretend for the homophobic asshat, are you?”

Hartley looks at Len, a little more shrewdly. Inwardly, Len is practically punching the air – he hadn’t expected to be able to find Hartley this quickly. 

“Hey, Mick!” calls Len, over the low jazz playing in the bar. Mick winds his way over from the dart board to take the stool next to Hartley’s.

“What is it, Snowflake?”

Len rolls his eyes at the endearment, trying to ignore the way his stomach fluttered. 

“Mick this is – I’m sorry, I never got your name.”

“Hartley.”

“There we go. Hartley, this is my husband, Mick. I’m Len.”

Hartley’s gaze is flicking back and forth between the two of them. 

“Mick, Hartley’s father is a homophobic prick who’s going to throw him out.”

“This is why you put about twenty bedrooms in the Brownstone, isn’t it?” says Mick. “Because you knew I’d want to protect them all. Which one is he, then?” 

Len smirks. 

“I know he’s one of yours, Lenny. Who?”

“Pied Piper. You started work on that flute yet, kid?” 

Hartley’s jaw actually drops. 

“How did you get past those firewalls?”

“I didn’t. You built it, in about four years. I was there.”

“You’re from the future. Impossible.” 

There’s a pause. Both Len and Mick lean a little closer to Hartley. 

“Did it work?”

Mick laughs.

“Yes, it did.” says Len. “You saved a lot of lives with it.”

“Alright then, kiddo. There’s a room in the house out back with your name on it, if you decide you want to live as yourself instead of who your daddy wants you to be.” says Mick. “Raph and Reysey would love a big brother, I’m sure.” 

“Think on it.” says Len, and nods at Mick to leave Hartley alone to think. 

The next time Len looks, Hartley’s gone.

***  
“Father?” 

Len’s in the kitchen, watching Mick make stew for dinner and thinking about how he should go about broaching the subject of Barry Allen, when Reysey calls out from the front door. It’s pouring outside, and there’s a fire crackling in the living room, where Raph is busily coding a program to help them catalogue police response times to Darbinyan safehouses and headquarters. 

“What is it, Reysey?”

“There’s someone here to see you. He says his name is Hartley?”

Len’s out of his seat and moving instantly, only vaguely hearing Mick swear and move things around on the stove behind him. Hartley is soaked to the bone, and there’s an equally wet designer duffle bag on the stoop in front of him. 

“It went badly, then.” says Len. 

“So very badly. I think I’m getting disowned, too? But I just couldn’t lie like that. They wanted me to marry someone. I couldn’t do that to the poor girl. I couldn’t do that to myself.” The rain is leaving droplets on his glasses.

“Oh my god, is he like me and Raph?” gasps Reysey. 

“Raph and I.” corrects Len, absentmindedly, as he ushers Hartley and his bag inside. “And yes. In all conceivable ways.”

“What was his superpower then?” 

This last question is from Raph, who’s appeared with towels in the doorway, and is now forcing them at Hartley. 

“Sound manipulation.”

Hartley giggles through the towel he’s using to dry off his hair. 

“Really? Sound? I can’t even hear properly without my aids.” 

Len makes eye contact with Mick over Hartley’s head. Mick’s arms are full of clothes – a pair of Raph’s sweatpants, and what looks like one of Mick’s sweaters, but he’s got the same determined look in his eye.

“Hart, would it help you if we learned ASL?” asks Len. 

The towel gets pulled away at top speed. 

“My parents didn’t do that. There’s no need for you to.” 

“But would it help?” pushes Mick.

“Yes.” Hartley admits. 

“Then we’ll do it. You’re important. You being comfortable and safe is important.”

“But it’s not normal.”

“FUCK NORMAL.” yell Reysey and Raph in unison. Len smiles. 

“What they said. Here, dry clothes. There’s stew for dinner, and you can teach us some basics while we eat.” 

Outside, the rain is still falling. Inside, Hartley Rathaway is swimming in Mick’s sweater and being cuddled by his two new little siblings, his hands marking slow through the signs for family, and home, and hello.


	5. [Here Is the Image of the Lover Destroyed] Crossed Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the hero finally appears to face his dragons…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay first of all I'm so sorry this update took so long - Barry was being a pain, and then rl got in the way. But we've made it, Barry finally told me what was wrong and let me fix it, and I made myself cry writing this opening scene with Len and Mick. I also wanted to say thank you for all your lovely comments - I've been terrible at replying to them but I value every one and you're all angels for saying such nice things.

Len puts down the newspaper he’s been reading, neatly folded to show the most recent headline about the soon-to-be Green Arrow, and clears his throat. Mick turns out a fresh piece of French Toast on to a plate, gets one look at Len’s face, and turns off the element he’s been cooking Saturday brunch on. 

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

“There’s something I haven’t told you.” Len says, eyes, still fixed on the folded paper in front of him. There’s a resignation in his face, one that suggests he’s expecting Mick to be angry. 

“About what?” asks Mick. Out the window, from between the curling stems of Mick’s windowsill herb garden, you can see Raph and Reysey sitting on the porch swing with their coffee, and Hartley on the steps with his guitar. 

“Barry.” says Len, forcing the name out between his teeth and feeling like he shouldn’t the whole time. 

“Who?” asks Mick, already trying to figure out if they have enough linens in the cupboard. 

“Barry Allen.”

“Your Speedster.” says Mick, something a little dangerous beginning to creep into his tone. 

“He’s –“ Len stops, unsure how to continue. 

“He’s in Central.” says Mick. 

“He is. He’s a CSI for the CCPD. Mick, you should know, I think I might be-“ again, the words die in Len’s throat. 

“You’re in love with him too.” Mick finishes for him. Len looks up, finally, something a little surprised in his face. “I’m not a fool, Lenny. I know what love looks like on your face. What are you going to do?”

“When he shows up? I don’t know. I promised him I wouldn’t let history play out the way it did. Last time, I watched him go from an idealistic kid to a man with the world on his shoulders and no one who could help him with the load.”

“So we help him carry it.” says Mick, like this is final. He pulls out the chair closest to Len’s and sits down. Len’s looking at him like he’s inscrutable, and Mick sighs. 

“I know you. If he’s someone you think you can love, he’s someone who deserves to be protected and supported, someone who can be trusted and loved. I can’t tell you if –“ Mick pauses, runs through a couple of different phrasings in his head, picks the one he likes best. Len’s still staring at him, waiting for an explanation. “There’s a ring on your finger and a name in the system that says you’re mine, Lenny. I can’t tell you if I’m going to like your little fast friend, but I know that whatever happens, you’re not going to leave me.” 

Len’s looking at him like the sun rises and sets in Mick’s chest. 

“I think you’ll like him.” Len says, finally. “You like me, after all.”

Mick smiles, and tops up the coffee in Len’s mug. The front door creaks, and Reysey pads back inside, one of Mick’s old CCFD t-shirts slipping off her shoulder. She tracks straight for the coffee pot, and then turns to assess her parents, sitting shoulder to shoulder at the table, Mick’s hand on Len’s thigh.

“Everything okay?” she asks. 

Mick just laughs. 

***

They call it in when someone attempts to rob Saints and Sinners, tripping the alarm and forcing the empty till and running for it before Mick or Len can make it into the bar proper. Lisa had raised her eyebrows as Len made the call, but the almost-hungry look in his eyes makes her pause. The bar is flooded reasonably quickly with three or four policemen, and one of them takes the initiative of calling in a CSI. Mick appears in the doorway to overhear that phone call, and grins like a maniac, all teeth. 

“What’s this about, then?” Lisa asks, Len’s quick call and Mick’s delighted grin too many anomalies to let slide.

“They’re sending a CSI.” says Len.

“And?” demands Lisa.

“And our speedster is currently the on-call CSI for the Central City Police Department.”

“Wait, we’re gonna meet the speedster?” 

That’s Reysey, who’s stuck her head around the doorframe. Her hair has curled a little in the humidity – there’s a thunderstorm pending that could strike at any minute – and she’s being shadowed by Raph. He looks comfortable in a pastel floral t-shirt, and she’s wearing cutoff overalls and Docs. 

“You’re not, because you’re going to school.” says Mick, voice gruff. “Where’s your other brother?”

“Hart’s getting coffee. He’ll be over in a minute. Are we really not allowed to wait?” she asks, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

“Absolutely not. School!” declares Mick, pointing towards the curb where the bus will pick them up. Reysey rolls her eyes, but Raph grins sheepishly and starts to pull her away by her elbow. 

“I want pictures!” Reysey yells over her shoulder, red laptop bag bouncing against her hip with every step. Mick waves his phone in her general direction, and Raph laughs, like the echo of sunshine. 

Mick turns a bright grin on Len, who’s shaking his head, fondly. They watch the policemen cordon off the scene a little more thoroughly while they wait. Thunder booms through the otherwise still morning. 

“What’s the ruckus out here?” asks Hartley, voice still rough from sleep. He’s started growing his hair out in the three weeks he’s been living with them, and it’s already long enough he has to keep flicking it out of his eyes with his free hand. The mug he’s clutching declares that this may or may not be his third coffee. 

“Someone tried to jack the till last night.”

“But we empty it every night at closing?” 

“They didn’t know that, Hart baby.” coos Lisa, ruffling his hair until it ends up back in his face. 

“But the delightful result is that our speedster is on his way.” interrupts Len, as Hartley glares at Lisa from under his bangs.

“He’s a policeman?”

“A CSI, actually.”

“So smart, then. Good.” Hartley takes a sip from his mug as one of the policemen approaches. 

“Mister Rory. Mister Rory.” 

The man looks mildly affronted that he’s here for any reason other than arresting the two of them, and Len smiles broadly. 

“Captain Singh. Anything we can help you with?”

“Yes. Who has access to the bar?”

“Mick and I, of course. Lisa, my sister.” 

Lisa twiddles her fingers in a wave. 

“And there’s a spare key by our door, so our kids, too.”

“Who are?”

“Reysey and Raph, who left for school about twenty minutes ago, and Hart.”

Hartley nods at the Captain over his mug of coffee. 

“Hartley Rathaway.” The tone that this is spoken in makes it sound like the Captain is a medieval town crier delivering a death notice.

“My parents don’t want anything to do with me now I’m out, and Mick and Len were kind enough to offer me a bedroom.” 

Singh looks sympathetic for a moment.

“Alright then –“

Whatever he was going to say next is interrupted by the bar door slamming open, and a young man stumbling in. 

“Oh, it started raining.” observes Hartley, off-hand. 

Len couldn’t have told you the weather if his life depended on it – he’s too caught up in seeing Barry Allen for the first time since he was throwing Len back in time and begging Len not to forget him. He’s soaking wet, shirt clinging to a body that’s still lean, even if it’s not as well-muscled as it was when he was the Flash, hair flopping into green eyes that look even more trusting and innocent than Len had pictured. There’s a case over his shoulder, presumably his kit, and Len wants nothing more than to back him into one of the pool tables and mess up that hair even more. When he turns to look back at Mick, he realizes Singh is gone. 

“The good Captain made his apologies, not that you noticed. What’s got you so distracted?” asks Mick. 

“That’s him.” 

“Who, the twink? He’s our speedster?”

“Bartholomew Henry Allen.” 

Mick turns to observe, right as Barry starts to examine the cracked till. It takes Barry all of ten seconds to turn and tell Singh that the till was forced with a tire iron rather than a crowbar, indicating it was probably a spur of the moment thing, and that the perp had come in one of the back windows, which had a smashed pane consistent with the same tire iron. 

“And my money’s on the lock on the door being opened with the same tire iron. It was someone desperate and digging – they will have left fingerprints everywhere.”

A hand lands on Len’s forearm – Mick’s been groping blindly towards him. 

“Holy motherfucking Christ.” breathes Mick. 

“And this isn’t even him at his best.” Len murmurs in reply. 

“You’re kidding me. Can we keep him?”

Hartley makes a strangled noise and spits out the mouthful of coffee he’s just taken.

“I can’t deal with this.” 

Lisa is laughing like a maniac, bent almost double. 

“No, really, Snowflake, can we keep him?”

Len flashes him a grin full of teeth, and starts to swagger over to where Barry is dusting the till for prints. Hartley modified that till on day three of his adoption into the Rory family to contain an extra drawer to store a small handgun, just in case, and Barry finds and presses the button to open it just as Len arrives. 

“It’s legal, I promise.” Len purrs into Barry’s ear, and Barry turns on a dime to face him. The young man presses back against the counter and immediately starts blushing, red creeping across his face and down his neck. Well, that was new. Barry’s eyes are wide, big enough that Len can see the flecks of hazel that dot his irises, and the flush on his throat only deepens as he swallows hard. 

“You were right, Lenny. He does look good in red.” 

Mick’s leaning on the other side of the bar, elbows on the hardwood so that he’s breathing down Barry’s neck. Barry half turns so he can see them both, and miraculously manages to get even redder. Mick makes eye contact with Len over his shoulder, and in that moment, he answers all of Len’s questions from earlier, all of the moments of confusion and hesitation in a wave of nothing bar ‘yes, absolutely’. 

“Say, Scarlet.” says Len, to draw Barry’s attention back again, taking one thin wrist into his grip and pushing up the flannel sleeve. “What do you say that once they close this case, you give us a call? Either one of us.” He uncaps the sharpie with his teeth and starts to pen numbers across the pale skin on Barry’s forearm. 

“We’d be just delighted to hear from you.” rumbles Mick, hand curling around to close the drawer with the gun in it. His hand dips as he pulls it back, and Barry jumps for a second. Mick’s grinning, and Len rolls his eyes with a smirk as he pulls Barry’s sleeve back down over the phone number. 

“I –“ starts Barry, eyes flicking between the hungry smiles on their faces. “As a one-off thing?”

“We’ll start there.” says Len.

“And see how it develops.” finishes Mick.

There’s an echoing smile forming on Barry’s own face, something delighted and familiar to Len, the same smile Barry got when he was about to do something exhilarating and reckless, the smile he had when they first faced off on that train, the smile from the night at Ferris Air, before the betrayal, the smile from the warehouse when he offered to pretend to be a criminal. 

“Yeah.” says Barry, and for a moment he looks like he’s about to offer Len a bite of the apple. “I can do that.”

***  
Reysey: Well? Photos!

Literal Hot Dad: fuckyoulenwhydidntyouwarnme.img

Reysey: That’s him? NIIIIIICCCCEEEEEEE

Literal Hot Dad: Class time now, Reysey. 

***

Barr: I’m on my way to Jitters. Any chance you can take your break when I get there?

Iris frowned at her phone, and looked back up at the door. It’d been twenty minutes since Barry sent the text, which suggests he should be walking through the door at any minute –

Honestly, Iris doesn’t know what to make of the look on Barry’s face. It’s somewhere between delighted surprise and twinging fear, with an addition of blown pupils that suggests something akin to lust. He flops into the first available seat and shoots her a look that is just begging for help. It takes her three seconds to undo her apron and throw herself into the seat opposite him. 

“What happened?”

Barry flops his head down onto his arms and mumbles something incomprehensible. 

“What was that?”

Barry’s head doesn’t lift from his arm, but one of his hands drifts across the table like a drunken crab until his forearm is extended in front of Iris. Printed across it, in remarkably neat handwriting, is a phone number. The noise Iris makes is verging on inhuman. 

“Where? Who? When?” she demands, beaming at the top of Barry’s head.  
Barry mumbles something else mostly indistinct and then lifts his head. 

“There’s two of them, Iris.”

She claps her hands over her mouth. 

“And they want to take me out on a date.” 

There’s a moment of silence between the two of them, unspoken words hanging heavy. 

“Do you want to go on a date with them?” Iris asks, finally. 

“I don’t know.” whines Barry, running a hand through his messy hair. “I mean on one hand, holy shit they’re so hot, and I totally flirted back. On the other hand –“ he cuts off, like he’s not sure what it is he wants to say. 

“So, walk me through your thoughts.”

Barry looks at her blankly for a moment. 

“They seem – really interested? And they’re almost unfairly attractive. They’re nice – they’ve got kids, three of them, and they seem to really care about them. But I can’t do anything until we close this case.”

“Why?”

“They own the bar.”

“So wait until you close the case, and then call them.” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. The look Barry gives her in response could curdle milk, but then it softens. 

“I suppose I could give it a try.”

“What have you got to lose?” asks Iris, and she pats him on the arm as she gets up to go back to work. As she leaves, she could swear she heard Barry say something that sounded suspiciously like ‘you’. 

***  
GROUPCHAT: NOTHING ILLEGAL HERE  
Reysey: GUYS THE SPEEDSTER’S HOT  
Hart: pa sent you photos?  
Reysey: fuckyoulenwhydidntyouwarnme.img  
Reysey: he diiiiIIIIIIIID  
Hart: I love you  
Raph: ryes you’re gonna get your phone confiscated stop  
Reysey: I love that you can spell “confiscated” without looking at your phone, but not my name.  
Reysey: do you think we’ll have to call him daddy?  
Hart: I changed my mind I hate you so much 

***  
Mick: Reysey approves.  
Len: Did you send our daughter photos of Barry?  
Len: When did you take photos of Barry?  
Len: Don’t answer either of those. I’m not going to like either response. 

***  
There’s someone behind him. Barry can tell, because he can feel the warmth of their body radiating against his back, feel the hard plane of muscle pressed against his shoulders. Whoever the man is, he has both of Barry’s wrists pinned to the small of his back with one hand, and the other is tracing a line up his spine, deceptively soft. To his left, he can hear someone laughing, a deep-gravel chuckle that makes him shiver, something expectant in his bones. 

“Look at you, doll.” breathes the man behind him, fingers now playing across his collarbone. Barry leans into his touch, wanting something more. “So very pretty, so desperate. How much do you want this?” 

The hand on his wrists pulls sharply, and Barry’s pressed tight against the man, shoulders to thighs, leaving absolutely no doubt as to the fact that the man was enjoying this as much as Barry. A pleading noise Barry didn’t know he was capable of making worked its way out of his throat, and the voice to his left makes a pleased little humming sound. 

“You’re all ours, for now, and for always.” murmurs the man behind him, lips brushing against his throat. 

“We’re not going anywhere.” says the voice to his left, and Barry turns his head so the lips on his neck have better access, with the added bonus of bringing the man on his left into his view. His eyes dart across inked forearms and up to intelligent eyes and a should-be-illegal smirk. 

“We’re never going to leave you, Scarlet.” purrs Len Rory, slowly slinking across the floor to stand in front of Barry, arms folded across his chest. 

“Ours.” whispers Mick, into his ear as Mick’s free hand begins to trip its way down his chest, and then Barry’s back is arching in pleasure. 

Barry wakes, red faced and panting, and immediately rolls over so he can scream into his pillow.

***

Barry: Captain Singh closed the case this morning.  
Absolutely Not Len Rory: Does that mean you’re free this evening?  
Barry: I should be, yes.  
Absolutely Not Len Rory: Meet us at the bar.  
Absolutely Not Len Rory: We’ve got a lot to talk about, Scarlet.


	6. The Part When We Were Happy All The Time [Even If We Didn’t Deserve It]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and decides he’d much rather date them than stab them. (Additionally, Hartley makes Mick break one of the good mugs)

“I think we shouldn’t tell him straight away.” 

Mick looks up from the hastily compiled shopping list in his hands and regards Len with something akin to a side eye. It’s an alarming expression to see on his face, not least because he’s almost certainly picked it up from Hartley. Len rolls his eyes, and leans back against the shelf of pasta sauce. 

“I don’t want to scare him off – we need him to trust us first.” 

Mick nods, but doesn’t say anything, just scrunches up his nose at the ingredients list on the back of the jar in his hand and puts it back. 

“We’ll make sure he’s comfortable, and then we can tell him.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Father, we get it. You’re gonna seduce the cute speedster and then tell him that he threw you back in time from the future.” 

Raph tosses three bags of gluten free pasta into the trolley and half-drapes himself across the end. Len tosses a glare at him, but stands up straight and swaggers closer to Mick. 

“Are you sure you’re okay about this?” he asks. Mick rolls his eyes and tugs Len in by the front of his belt in order to kiss him. 

“It’s fine.” Mick says, when they’ve parted again. “I wouldn’t have agreed to it if it wasn’t, Lenny.” 

“Did I tell you about the image file name?” chirps Reysey, dropping four bags of walnuts half-behind the flour and climbing up to perch on the side of the trolley. “Because the image file name would suggest Pa has no objections.” 

Mick shoves the trolley with his hip, sending both teens stumbling and giggling across the aisle. 

“We’re on a schedule, here.” snaps Hartley, through a delighted smile, carefully laying a bag of avocadoes into the bed of the trolley and placing two baguettes into the child seat where they wont be crushed. “Only so long before he shows up at the bar, Father.” 

There’s a beat, as Len nods and begins to move further down the aisle, once again caught up in trying to make the dinner perfect enough to ensure Barry Allen isn’t going to run scared. Hartley grins wide as soon as Len turns his back, shoves his lengthening fringe back from his face, and clears his throat. 

“Should we pick up some more coffee beans and some bacon, too?” he calls. 

In the minutes between Len getting his hands on one of the baguettes and Hartley’s muffled ‘UNCLE, UNCLE!’ from two aisles over, Mick peers down into the trolley. 

“Why on earth would we need four bags of walnuts, Reysey?”

***

Barry checks the clock on the wall, and taps his phone awake to check for new texts. Nothing. He stares at his phone until it goes dark again and then for a little longer, waiting for the Rorys to come to their senses and realize they don’t want him. 

The Rorys own Central, and everyone knows it. Len’s too good for the CCPD to ever get close enough to arrest them, but it’s no secret that he’s got Central cradled in the palm of his hand, and he’s presented it with a bow on top to Mick Rory as an anniversary gift. Len Rory is a king, Mick Rory is a king, and they could have anyone in the city on their knees if they felt like it. 

The real question, the one Barry has been avoiding asking himself, avoided answering, is whether this fact bothers him. It’s been a week since he’d found himself pinned between Len Rory’s dancing eyes and the counter of the bar, between Mick Rory’s smug smile and the cool metal of the cash register. A week in which he’s replayed those moments over and over again, looking through his memory for a hint of mockery, hunting after a moment that would give him the out of them not being serious, and not found anything. A week in which he’s woken every night panting with memories of those matching smirks, of Mick’s arms, of Len’s eyes, of the dark possessiveness that floated in their tones. 

Based on that fact alone, Barry’s got to admit, he probably cares less than he should about the Rorys’ criminal empire. 

He’s very aware of the fact that if he does this, he’s going to have to keep his mouth shut at work, going to have to fight his way through avoiding mentioning it to Joe, dodge around telling Iris any damning details. There’s so very many ways it could go wrong. The larger part of his brain is shouting that it’s a terrible idea, that he shouldn’t do it, that he should just stand them up and be done with the whole thing. 

But there’s this tiny persuasive whisper that keeps slinking into his thoughts, the one that reminds him that they could be serious, the one that points out how wonderful it could be. The quiet voice that reminds him that they could have anyone in Central and they chose him. The whisper that suggests that even if he did have to sacrifice his job, there was no reason that the connections that came with a relationship with the kings of Central couldn’t do things like get his father out of prison. And there was a dark part of his brain that clung to the idea that he could be something special, he could be just as important as them – there was something scarily appealing about being included as one of those kings. 

But they can’t be serious. The Rorys wouldn’t want someone as bland and average as him, and it is only a matter of time before they realize this. 

Nonetheless, the phone stays dark. 

***

Saints and Sinners is dark but welcoming, in the way softly lit rooms always are, full of dark leather and darker wood and with a low, slinky song playing over the sound system. Barry slinks in at exactly the time Len’s text had told him to, having been uncharacteristically early and spending ten minutes outside breathing hard, fully expecting to be ignored. Instead, he’s greeted by a girl’s delighted squeal and the sound of running feet, followed by a door slamming. 

“THE HOT CSI’S HERE!” comes the call, muffled only slightly by the door that must lead to the kitchen. Barry can feel himself blushing, the heat creeping up his neck. 

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE, THERESA, WHY!” somebody yells in response. A low laugh vibrates through the otherwise empty space, and Barry turns on a dime to find Len Rory leaning against the jukebox. He’s wearing a criminally soft-looking sweater over his dark skinny jeans and the whisper in Barry’s brain is back, reminding him that this vision of a human being is interested in him, and why wouldn’t Barry jump on that in a heartbeat? 

“Hello, Scarlet.” Len purrs. 

Barry knows he’s redder than a fire engine and he swallows hard to try and beat that blush back down again. Holy shit why is he like this. The door that the girl had run through opens again, this time discharging Mick, who’s wearing a shirt tight enough that Barry is actually considering the idea it was painted on. Honestly, are they trying to kill him? 

“Barry!” says Mick, delighted. “The food’s almost ready – I can kick the kids out if you’d prefer, or we could have a family dinner?”

Barry doesn’t know what to say for a minute. It’s not because he’s not sure which he’d rather – it has everything to do with the fact his mouth went dry at the implication he could be part of their family. 

“Maybe just us, this time?” Barry says, a little hesitantly. Mick looks pleased at the response, and Barry wonders if it’s because Barry gave the right answer or because Barry suggested this might happen again. 

“That’s a great idea, Barry.” says Len, from behind him. His voice goes up a few decibels. “Which means you should stop listening through the swing doors, midgets!”

The sound of muffled laughter and then running feet rings for a minute, and Barry smiles. The kids obviously adore them both, and Barry spends a mental moment trying to reconcile that with the frankly ruthless takeover they’d pulled against the Darbinyans. 

“Would you like to sit?” asks Len, as Mick disappears back into the kitchen with a wry grin. At Barry’s nod, Len steers him to a specific booth towards the back of the bar with a warm hand on his waist. It’s not until he’s slid in and Len has shuffled him around in such a way that he knows he’s going to be pressed between the two of them that Barry realizes the booth has a perfect view of the entire bar. 

“I’m guessing this is your regular spot?” he asks, settling into the luxuriously comfortable leather. Len smirks, but it’s not vicious, it’s almost pleased. Barry surveys the bar again, taking in the little details, like the stained glass lights at each table and the subtle carvings on the ends of the booths. 

“It is.” Len agrees. “It could be yours, too.” 

When Barry looks back at him, there’s not even a hint of mockery in his expression. He just looks hungry, hopeful. Barry’s saved from having to reply by Mick’s return. He’s carrying a delicious-looking pasta dish that must be dinner for the three of them, and he’s smiling a little. It looks good on his face. 

“That’s a nice view. I could get used to that.” he says, laying the plates on the table. Barry laughs, just for a moment. It earns him confused looks from both Rorys, and Mick sits down, slides right up next to him. 

“What about that was funny, Barry?” he asks. 

“I just can’t believe it. There’s no way you two are actually interested in me. Whatever it is you want, you should ask for it.”

Len and Mick exchange a look that seems to have far more weight behind it than Barry was expecting. 

“Barry – you don’t even understand how important you are. We don’t want anything from you, just the opportunity to be a part of your life.” 

Len sounds alarmingly sincere. Barry shakes his head a little. 

“What do you want?”

“He ain’t gonna believe us, Snowflake. You need to tell him.” says Mick, with a slight frown. 

“Because he’ll believe that?” Len replies, almost snappish. 

“More than he’s apparently willing to believe we want to bang him, even if they’re equally true.” 

They both look sideways at Barry, who’s watching them like a particularly confusing tennis match. 

“Tell me what?” asks Barry. 

“Before we start –“ says Len, and he actually looks nervous, “Let me say that the man in the lightning is real.” 

Barry snaps up, instantly on edge. 

“How do you – that’s only the in the police reports. Oh my god, did you steal the police reports?”

“Barry – Barry, calm down. You told me to tell you that, that it would help you trust that I was telling the truth.”

“What.” Barry says flatly. 

“Before you sent me back here.”

“Back from where, Len? We’d never met before the investigation.” 

Len takes a deep breath. 

“From the future. You threw me back in time so I could change the past and help you save the world.”

“I’m a CSI with a permanent note on my record for delusions, Len. How would I save the world?”

“They called you The Flash. Iris came up with the name – I don’t think Ramon ever really forgave her for that, he likes to be the one to name things. He named me.” Len says, with a wry smile. 

“The Flash?” 

“You could run faster than sound. You broke Mach 2 at least, you ran back in time, you unwound a tornado.” 

“How?”

“The Particle Accelerator at STAR Labs. It explodes.” 

“Christ. I – is that why you asked me here? To tell me that?”

“I wasn’t planning on telling you tonight. I was going to tell you date three-ish.”

“You were going to take me out on three dates?”

Mick groans. 

“For fuck’s sake, Allen, we’re going to take you on as many dates as you’ll let us take you on.”

“Why?”

Mick lets his forehead drop to the table, and Len laughs, like he can’t believe the question. 

“Barry, we want to date you because we think you’re hot.” Len says, voice verging on patronizing. 

Barry doesn’t say anything, just stares disbelievingly. 

“I’ve known you for a long time, Barry. Mick – well, Mick was won over by your little stunt at the crime scene.”

“What little stunt? The blushing or the stammering?”

Len looks over at Mick, expectant. Mick raises his head from his arms, throws Len and dirty look, and then looks Barry in the eye.

“You had that scene dead to rights in two seconds flat.” Mick says. “It was damn hot, Scarlet.”

Len’s smirking. Barry looks between them, and feels something warm at the base of his spine. They did want him – there had never really been someone who wanted him, who determinedly tracked him down to make sure he knew he was wanted, he was needed. 

“Barry.” Len says, soft and drawling. “We want you, just as you are.”

“You could have anyone!” Barry bursts out. “You own this city!”

Len laughs, softly.

“We want you. We want you to stand at our side, to be our partner, in all things.” 

There’s a crown in that offer, a place on the throne of Central’s Underworld. All the pondering Barry’s been doing can’t add up to an immediate answer. Barry can’t look at either of them any more, and looks down to his empty plate. 

“If you need time to process that…” Mick offers. 

“I will.” says Barry. 

“We can give you all the time you need.” Mick promises, eyes sincere. 

“A week.” says Barry. “Give me a week.” 

“We could organize a time to meet now, leave you alone until then.”

“No need. You’re welcome to text me, I just want some time to put my thoughts in order before I make a decision. It would – I have to think about it.”

Mick nods, and Len slides out of his seat to give Barry an exit route. 

“Thank you for dinner, Mick.” 

“Anything for you, Barry.” 

Barry takes one more look at them, and flees. 

***

GROUPCHAT: AND ALL THE SINNERS, SAINTS

[Snowflake Emoji]: Have a good day, Scarlet. 

[Flame Emoji]: Catch some bad guys for us.

Barry: You are the bad guys

[Snowflake Emoji]: But you’d never come for us, would you?

***

Hartley sits Len and Mick down in the kitchen of the Brownstone on the Wednesday after their date with Barry, looking serious. 

“I just got a job offer at the best research facility in the city, working on something incredible.” he says. Mick looks delighted over the rim of his coffee mug, but Len’s brow creases. 

“Oh no, that’s ‘I’m not telling you something concerning about the future’ face.” says Hartley. 

“The man they call Harrison Wells-“ starts Len. Hartley groans.

“This is everything I’ve been working for, Father.” 

“Just be careful, alright? He fucked you up, the last time.”

“We’re here, this time.” says Mick, but his eyes are still worried. 

“That won’t necessarily make a difference.” Len admits. 

“What, did he dump me or something?” Hartley laughs, although he sobers up quickly when Len breaks eye contact. 

“Or something.” says Len, completely serious. Hartley’s jaw drops. 

“Intense emotional manipulation. He spent three years fucking you and fucking with you, and then kicked you to the curb as soon as you got in his way.” Len tilts his head to one side. “Past you had some serious abandonment issues.”

There’s a beat, followed by the sharp crack of Mick’s coffee mug shattering on the floor. 

“I’m going to kill him.” Mick growls. 

“Not yet, Mick.” Len murmurs, resting a placating hand on Mick’s arm. 

“Oh my god.” whispers Hartley. “Is there someone I can trust?”

“Cisco Ramon – although I don’t think he’s been hired yet – and Caitlin Snow. Ronnie Raymond, too.” 

Hartley runs his hands over his face, and then looks up at them. 

“I’m going to take the job.” he says, at length. 

“Promise me you’ll be careful.” Len says. There’s a hint of a beg in his tone. 

“I promise I’ll be careful. And I promise not to sleep with Harrison Wells.” 

“That’s all I ask of you.” Len teases, and Hartley ducks his head to hide his smile. 

***  
GROUPCHAT: AND ALL THE SINNERS, SAINTS

[Flame Emoji]: Have you eaten today?

Barry: I had a bagel at breakfast?

[Flame Emoji]: honestly, baby, how are you still alive. 

[Flame Emoji]: you and Len are exactly the same

[Flame Emoji]: I am going to bring you food meet me in the park. 

[Snowflake Emoji]: I eat

[Flame Emoji]: only when I remind you

***

Whoever came up with the idiom “gossiping like fishwives” has obviously never heard policemen at a precinct when they’re procrastinating on paperwork. David Singh has heard exactly five separate conversations about the fact that Allen had left the precinct at lunch, been gone for 10 minutes, and come back with a brown paper bag lunch and a thermos that absolutely were not from any of the local restaurants. The entirety of the conversation appears to be about what kind of girl would date him for long enough to do things like make him brown paper bag lunches with gourmet sandwiches and homemade chocolate croissants. Allen unwisely chooses that moment to appear at the top of the stairs. 

“What’s her name, Allen?” yells one of the gossiping officers. Allen goes beet red and looks down at his shoes. 

“She must really like you, babyface.” teases another. 

“Alright, that’s enough!” David yells, and shepherds Allen and the evidence he’s carrying into his office. Allen remains bright red for the whole time he’s giving David a run down of the results he’s been working on. 

“-which is how we can conclude that the killer was wearing cotton gloves like those found in the nightstand.” Allen concludes. His gaze darts off to the side, nervous. “And his name is Mick.”

“What?” asks David, because there’s no suspect in that case named Mick. 

“The lunch. His name is Mick.” 

“Congratulations on the boyfriend, then, Allen. If that’s all?” 

Allen gives him a sheepish smile, and heads out of the office. 

***

Barry asks them to meet him at Jitters, exactly a week after their dinner, although a little earlier in the afternoon. He’s sitting at a table by the window when Len and Mick come in, warm and soft and perfect in his maroon sweater and skinny jeans, his hands curled around a ceramic mug. Len crosses the room to order drinks for the two of them, and Mick sinks into the chair opposite Barry. 

“Hey, Mick.” says Barry, with a wide, genuine smile. 

“Hello, doll.” says Mick. “How’s your week been?” 

Barry laughs, delighted. There’s something in his eyes that looks convinced, content. 

“It’s been good. I went to see my Dad, up at Iron Heights.” Barry says. He’s taken his hands off the mug, and they dance as he talks. “He told me something really interesting.”

“Oh?” says Mick, his eyebrows climbing. Lenny had mentioned that the kid had a father in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, but nothing else, because Len had opinions about what information the kid should be able to control. 

“Yeah!” chirps Barry. “See, I told him about this whole situation, because it’s not like I’m going to ask Joe about it. And guess what my Dad said after I told him your names?”

“What?” asks Mick, beginning to be a little tired of the guessing game, but nonetheless drawn in by the personified sunshine in the seat opposite him. 

“Apparently the two of you have been keeping the Families from hurting him.”

It doesn’t take Mick long to connect the dots. 

“You’re Doc Allen’s kid?” 

“Oh, you talked to your father. Good, nice to know he knows. That will make any return trips to Iron Heights less awkward.” 

Len carefully puts Mick’s coffee down in front of him, and sinks into the last remaining seat at the table. Barry shakes his head a little, but his smile never fades. 

“You’re good people.” says Barry.

“No, we’re really not.” says Mick. Len has a faraway look on his face, like he’s seen the best kind of ghost. 

“You used to tell me that all the time, in the future.” Len pauses, and his face scrunches up in frustration. “What tense do I use for a past action that occurred in the future? Mick, listen, Mick, I broke English.”

Barry grins. 

“Let’s go on a date.” he says, looking eagerly between the two of them. 

“Are you sure?” asks Len. Barry rolls his eyes. 

“I have spent this week researching everything that has happened since the two of you rolled the Darbinyans and the Santinis and took control of the Central Underworld. Yes, there have been some questionable deaths, but for the most part the community has experienced a downswing in crime, and there’s already the beginnings of community based programming for food and education.” 

Len flushes a little, and Mick preens at the mention of his gardens. 

“There’s just one thing that makes me uncertain, and that’s why I want to go on this date.”

“And what’s that, doll?” asks Mick, because the kid had sounded pretty sold on the idea. Barry goes a little pink. 

“You guys are like, super out of my league.” he says, sounding almost apologetic. 

Len makes eye contact with Mick, and flicks his head in the direction of the door. As Len rises out of his seat, Mick catches Barry’s hand, and pulls him along in his wake, until the three of them are out of the coffee shop and about halfway down the alleyway next to it. Barry ends up between the two of them, looking slightly bewildered and more than a little lust-dazed, and Mick and Len exchange a pleased smirk.

“You want first dibs?” Mick offers.

“You sure you don’t feel inclined?” asks Len.

“You were the man with the plan.” quips Mick, and Len rolls his eyes. 

“What plan?” questions Barry. 

“Go on, Lenny.” says Mick, letting his voice drop to the deep rumble that Len liked so much. 

Len brushes his fingers against Barry’s cheeks, giving Barry a long opportunity to pull away that he lets pass, unused. And with Barry’s face framed in his hands, Len kisses him for the first time. 

“Wow-“ says Barry, when they part for air, finally. “Are you really-“ 

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence, because Mick’s bending slightly to kiss him, pulling Barry flush against his larger frame, and it’s just as perfect as Len’s kiss had been. When Mick backs off, Barry follows, reluctant to leave the safety of his arms. It should have been alarming, how quickly the feeling of contentment had set in, but Barry just felt delighted, and pleased. 

“There’s no joke here. You’re too good for us.” says Len, his voice low in the way it only got when he felt he was being to honest. 

“I’m really not.” says Barry, and the take-the-apple look is back in his eyes, the go-on-I-dare-you recklessness that made him such a fantastic superhero. It’s going to make him an equally fantastic criminal, if he chooses to follow them down that path. Mick laughs. 

“That’s our Scarlet King.” he murmurs. “Pretty from a distance and deadly up close. Just like a forest fire.” 

“Or a glacier.” offers Len. Barry sends another sunshine smile at Len, and tucks himself further into Mick’s arms, but the devilish glint seems to settle in to stay, a spark in the green of his eyes. 

“You’re still taking me on a date.” he says.

“Can it be a movie?” asks Mick, thinly veiled ulterior motive clear in his question. 

“I’m not going to make out with you in the back row.” scolds Barry, with nowhere near enough bite in his voice to convince anyone. 

“Really now?” asks Mick, pulling Barry close and laying kisses against his neck. “Really now?” 

Barry squirms a little, blushes pink, looks at Len, giggles, and looks away. 

“Is that a lie, Scarlet?” teases Len. “Look at how quickly we’ve corrupted you.”

Barry buries his face in his hands, and then peeks at Len over the tips of his fingers. 

“Winter Soldier.” he says. 

Len and Mick exchange a confused look. 

“We’re going to go see Winter Soldier.” Barry clarifies. “Because I have seen that once and I can afford to be distracted in some parts.” 

He reaches out his hand, and Len takes it. 

***

Barry fits neatly between them as they walk out of the theatre. He’s chattering away about all the parts of the movie he loves, swimming in the coat Mick had given him to ward off the evening chill, hands dancing through the empty air ahead of him, lips redder than red and kiss-swollen. He’s something sweet and perfect and dangerous, and Len wants him more than ever. He’d feel bad about it, if the feeling slowly swamping his chest wasn’t echoed in Mick’s eyes. 

“Barry.” 

Barry cuts himself off, looks abashed. 

“Sorry, I got carried away. I really should control my babble.” 

Mick smiles. 

“It’s not that.” he assures Barry. 

“What we want to know is if we’re walking you home.” says Len, slowly. Barry swallows, visibly. 

“Is there another option?” he asks, eyes huge-wide.

“You can come back to the Brownstone with us.” 

There’s a beat, where Barry seems to consider his options. Then, almost hesitantly, he speaks.

“Brownstone?” 

For a moment, Len forgets that they are trying to be discreet so Barry can keep his job, and bends him over backwards to kiss him like a 40s movie star in the middle of the street with Mick wolf-whistling as a soundtrack.


End file.
